‘What?’
‘Make a series of ingenious observations about me.’
My guardian stretched languidly. ‘I do not perform party tricks.’ But our visitor leant forwards and urged, ‘Oh come on. Tell me something about myself.’
Sidney Grice waved a bored hand. ‘Apart from the fact that you are a pharmacist...’
Mr Green touched his cheek and asked, ‘How the blazes..? It is almost supernatural. Do I have faint stains of chemicals on my hands?’ He scrutinised his fingers. ‘I cannot see any.’
‘It is written on your calling card,’ my guardian said. ‘Now if...’
‘Well that is not much of a trick then, is it?’ Mr Green said. ‘Do another one.’
‘You are suffering with an earache,’ Sidney Grice told him, ‘though not as much as I might wish.’
Mr Green stroked his left ear in confirmation. ‘I have been a martyr to it since my eardrum was burst by an earwig when I was fourteen.’
I laughed. ‘But surely the belief that earwigs burrow into one’s ear is an old wives’ tale?’ And Mr Green became sorrowful. ‘I am living proof that is not.’ He put his fingertips to his left temple. ‘But a child could have worked that out from the cotton wool in it. Say something cleverer.’
Sidney Grice scratched his head in exasperation. ‘How am I supposed to know what is or is not obvious to a man of your mean acumen when everything about you is obvious to me? For instance, you are clearly a bachelor.’
Mr Green thought about this and said at last, ‘Very well. I give up. How did you work that one out?’
‘Three reasons,’ my guardian explained. ‘Firstly the button stitching on your waistcoat is at least four years out of style – five if you live in one of the better squares, which you do not – and no wife would allow her husband to be abroad so unfashionably attired. Secondly....’
‘Yes but what if I choose to ignore sartorial trends and my wife is too meek to prevent me?’
Sidney Grice gave a clipped laugh. ‘Yet more proof that you are unmarried. You must have been reading the small-brained scribblings of Mr Dickens if you believe that such a thing as a meek wife exists outside the bindings of one of his tawdry novels. Secondly, you do not wear a wedding band – which many men do not – but since you are a Roman Catholic...’
‘Can you smell incense on me?’
‘I can smell something,’ I said but both men ignored me.
‘Your rosary is hanging out of your coat pocket,’ Sidney Grice observed. ‘Thirdly and most conclusively you are such an insufferable man that no sane woman would ever consent to being your wife and an insane woman is barred by law from entering into the marriage contract.’
Mr Green clenched his jaw and half stood. His mouth worked itself into forming a reply but then he beamed and fell back laughing heartily. ‘Capital. Capital. Your rudeness is as famous as you are Mr Grice and now I shall be able to tell all my customers that I have been a recipient of it.’
‘I can give you much more than that to report,’ my guardian said. ‘I could discourse at length upon your imbecilic grin for example or...’
Mr Green blushed. ‘I can take a joke as well as any man but...’
‘So how was your trip to the dentist?’ I asked and my guardian glanced at me.
‘But...’ Mr Green said again.
‘I can smell it on you,’ I explained, ‘and you keep touching your right cheek.’
Mr Green clapped his hands. ‘Why, you will be putting your guardian out of work. I...’
‘Perhaps you could tell me why you are taking up my time,’ Sidney Grice broke in and our visitor’s smile vanished.
‘It is a bad business Mr Grice,’ he said as Molly came coughing in with the tea.
4
The Society of Fools
‘A very bad business,’ Mr Green said when Molly had gone. ‘Have you ever heard of final death societies, Mr Grice?’
‘I have three such societies in my files,’ Sidney Grice said, ‘and in all of them some of the members were murdered or died in extremely dubious circumstances but, as I was not called upon to assist in any of the cases, they remain unsolved.’
I poured three cups of tea and asked, ‘What exactly is a final death society?’
‘It is an association of fools,’ my guardian said, ‘with large estates and microscopic traces of common sense.’
Our caller straightened indignantly. ‘Let me describe it in less emotional terms,’ he began but it was Sidney Grice’s turn to bridle.
‘The whole world knows I have no emotions,’ he said, ‘other than my twin loves – of possessions and the truth.’
‘Milk and sugar?’ I asked and Mr Green nodded.
‘The societies are groups of men,’ he explained, ‘though in our case we have two lady members – who either have no heirs or have heirs that they do not care for. They make wills for a sum of money usually based upon the total assets of the poorest member, all of them being independently audited. These testaments are put into the hands of a mutually employed solicitor who will collect and manage their estates as they die and release the total funds to the final surviving member. For he takes a twenty per cent share of any increase in the value of the fund. The...’
‘In other words,’ Sidney Grice broke in, ‘all the members have a vested interest in ensuring the prior demise of their fellows.’
‘Which is why I am approaching you.’ Horatio Green raised his teacup carefully with both hands. ‘You see seven of us formed the club and we all lodged a promise of eleven thousand pounds each into the fund, the surviving member to receive the grand sum of seventy thousand pounds plus any interest that has accrued in the meantime.’
‘And who gets the remaining seven thousand pounds?’ my guardian enquired.
‘Why you do, Mr Grice,’ our visitor said.
Sidney Grice checked his watch. ‘Explain.’
Mr Green sipped his tea. ‘We are not so reckless as you suppose Mr Grice. Firstly we allowed only those of the highest character to join our society and secondly we hit upon the stratagem of investigating the death of every member no matter how natural their passing may seem. For this we agreed to engage the skills of the finest independent detective in the empire.’
‘Then you have come to the right address,’ my guardian said.
‘However,’ Mr Green continued, ‘Mr Cochran was unwilling to take up the challenge and so I have come to you.’
Sidney Grice shot a hand to his eye. ‘Am I a pigeon to peck at that vain imposter’s crumbs?’
Mr Green put down his cup and chuckled. ‘Got you there, Mr Grice. You see you are not the only one who can be rude. You are, of course, our first and only choice.’
‘I still consider it a great impertinence that I was not approached before now.’ My guardian eyed him icily and considered the matter. ‘If I accept your brief Mr Green...’ – He tapped his watch and edged the minute hand forwards – ‘it will only be because the prospect of investigating your death will bring me boundless joy. Let us hope I shall not have to wait too long.’
Mr Green put his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets and drummed his fingers.
‘Well, come what may,’ he said. ‘I shall not be the first. We have only been constituted for a week and we have already lost one member.’
‘I am so deeply sorry,’ my guardian said.
‘Well thank you but...’
‘That I ever employed that useless lumpen serving wench,’ Sidney Grice continued. ‘This tea is as weak as a Frenchman and why is she creeping about in the hall?’
‘I cannot hear her,’ I said.
Mr Green cocked his head. ‘Nor I.’
‘Dull minds have dull senses,’ my guardian told us and tugged the bell rope sharply twice. ‘I suppose I had better take the details.’
‘His name was Edwin Slab,’ Mr Green began but my guardian raised a hand to silence him.
‘You will provide the information as and when I ask for it. Now...’
He took a small red leather-bound notebook from the table by his chair and his silver-plated Mordan Mechanical pencil from his inside coat pocket. ‘What is the name of your ridiculous society?’
‘We called it the Last Death Club.’
‘Ingenious,’ Sidney Grice murmured. ‘And who are the other members?’
‘I have made out a list with all our member’s names, addresses, occupations and ages.’ Mr Green proffered a folded piece of paper but Sidney Grice sat back, closed his eyes and said, ‘Read it to me. Just the names and ages for now.’
Our visitor unfolded the sheet, hooked a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles over his ears and began, ‘Edwin Slab aged eighty one.’
My guardian raised his eyebrow. ‘An unlikely winner then.’ But Mr Green demurred.
‘We tried to organise our club so that all members had similar life expectancies. The Slabs have a long history of centenarians and until yesterday Edwin Slab was in perfect health.’
‘You were friends?’
‘The best of. I introduced him to the society.’
‘So how did Mr Slab end up on one?’
There was a clatter and Sidney Grice spun around. ‘Filthy footling tykes,’ he said. ‘Why have those street urchins nothing better to do than throw stones at my windows? There is no shortage of blocked drains they could be sent down.’
‘And no shortage of rats and disease to attack them there,’ I said but my guardian was unmoved.
‘No harm done this time,’ Mr Green observed. ‘You should have seen what they did to my pharmacy last night. I was just about to shut up shop when a group of boys burst in and started throwing stock off the shelves. I tried to stop them and got knocked over for my troubles. If a vicar had not turned up with his daughter and frightened them away, I dread to think what they would have done.’
‘Did they steal anything?’ I asked.
‘They did not get the chance,’ he said. ‘There were a few breakages but nothing too serious. The vicar picked most of the things up and I put them back on the shelf whilst his daughter composed herself. Ladies do not cope well with excitement.’
‘They so rarely get any,’ I informed them.
Sidney Grice, who had been leaning back with his eyes closed, opened them and asked, ‘How many children?’
‘Six or seven.’
‘Which?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘If it came to trial it would matter enormously to the seventh urchin who was or was not there. Had you met this vicar before?’
Mr Green winced and put his hand to his face. ‘I know him from a previous visit – a Reverend Golding from Saint Agatha’s. He suffers with his ears too and asked what I could recommend.’
‘That is the most intriguing petty crime I have come across in four years.’
My guardian waved a hand. ‘Proceed.’
‘Well I told him...’
‘Not with that twaddle,’ Sidney Grice broke in. ‘Tell me about Mr Slab.’
Mr Green puffed-up but only for a moment. ‘The doctor put it down to a seizure’
‘You have your doubts?’
Mr Green spread his hands as if to demonstrate that they were empty. ‘I have no opinion on the matter, Mr Grice but the rules of the society oblige me to ask you to investigate his passing.’
My guardian yawned. ‘I am rather swamped by work at the moment.’
‘It is a thousand pounds a time, Mr Grice with a two thousand pound bonus should you be able to prove that any member was murdered by another.’
‘To be paid when?’
‘After the death of the last member.’
‘And what if I predecease you? Does the money stay in the society’s fund? If so I am laying myself open to the same risks of murder as you so blockheadedly are.’
‘We thought of that,’ Mr Green said. ‘If you should die before all of us the money for each case you have investigated will be left to whosoever you desire.’
‘But there is nobody to whom I would wish to leave money. I have not been cursed by children.’
‘You have a mother,’ I said and he shrugged.
‘A few thousand pounds would be nothing to her. She probably spends that much every month purloining lumps of chipped stone from that old temple in Athens.’
‘Another relative or friend or somebody you are fond of,’ Mr Green suggested but my guardian frowned.
‘There is no one.’
‘What about Miss Middleton?’
‘She does not enter any of those categories.’
Molly came in with a fresh pot.
‘Perhaps you could have the money buried with you.’ I poured our teas as Molly tried an elaborate curtsey and stumbled out of the room.
‘That is the first sensible thing you have said,’ my guardian told me, ‘especially as I intend to be cremated.’
Mr Green laughed uncertainly but Sidney Grice held out his hand and said, ‘Give me the roster.’
Mr Green passed it across and my guardian perched his pince nez on the bridge of his long thin nose to study it with interest.
‘Horatio Green,’ he read out as if the name had a new meaning for him.
‘Edwin Slab, Gentleman; Primrose McKay – an unsavoury lady if a small proportion of the stories are to be believed.’
‘Is she connected to McKay’s Sausages?’ I asked and he nodded.
‘One account has it that her father took her to the abattoir on her tenth birthday and that she found the experience highly entertaining. Her greatest joy was to be allowed to cut a sow’s throat.’
‘How horrible.’ I fought down the nausea.
Sidney Grice blew his nose. ‘And by no means the worst I have heard of her.’ He scratched his scarred ear. ‘She is very young.’
‘Twenty-nine,’ Mr Green confirmed, ‘but none of her female antecedents has lived beyond the age of thirty-five since records began. In fact...’
‘The splendidly equestrian-sounding Warrington Gallop of Gallop’s Snuff Emporium,’ my guardian broke in. ‘The Reverend Enoch Jackaman, rector of Saint Cuthbert’s Church; the eccentrically named Prometheus Piggety, self-proclaimed entrepreneur.’ His had voice dropped soothingly. ‘Baroness Foskett,’ he said loudly and Mr Green raised his eyebrows.
‘You know the Baroness?’
‘Nobody has known her for almost three decades now. My father was a great friend of the late Baron and I often played in their house and garden with their late son the Honourable Rupert. What is so amusing, Miss Middleton?’
I covered my mouth. ‘I am sorry. It is just the thought of you playing.’
My guardian scowled. ‘I was a perfectly normal nine-year-old boy and Rupert was only thirteen years older. Many were the boisterous games we enjoyed...’ – A slightly dreamy look fleeted across his face – ‘of chess or in more frivolous moods we would set each other mathematical or syllogistic problems.’Mr Green winked at me. ‘Quite a jack-the-lad then.’
Sidney Grice grunted and said, ‘I am nonplussed that Baroness Foskett engages in such a frivolous and foolhardy enterprise.’
‘Why, the society was her idea.’ Mr Green helped himself to the sugar and I added his milk. ‘She told me so herself.’
‘I understood that she is still in deep mourning and receives no one.’ My guardian leant forwards. ‘You have met her?’
Mr Green sipped his tea. ‘Well sort of,’ he said and pulled a wry face. ‘This tea tastes very odd.’
My guardian tried his. ‘A touch flowery perhaps but we are trying a new blend from the lower eastern slopes of the Himalayas.’
‘Very odd,’ Mr Green said again and took another mouthful. He winced. ‘So hot.’
Sidney Grice wrinkled his nose, looked briefly puzzled and, throwing his cup and saucer down, leapt up. ‘Stop!’ He flung the table between them towards the hearth, smashing the china and spraying my dress with hot water. ‘Spit it out, man. Spit it out.’
Our visitor looked about him.
‘Anywhere!
On the floor!’ my guardian shouted.
Mr Green gulped. ‘I couldn’t do that.’ He smacked his lips sourly and screwed up his face. ‘Goodness it burns.’
‘You stupid man,’ Sidney Grice prodded his lapel. ‘That was....’
‘Prussic,’ Mr Green said in confused wonder, ‘acid,’ he whispered, letting his cup fall empty into his lap. He blanched and countless tiny beads of sweat broke out on his brow. His head jerked back and his mouth opened wide and he clutched the arms of the chair, raising his shoulders and expanding his chest to take a deep breath.
I rushed over, loosened his tie and undid the stud of his shirt collar. The sweat was trickling down his temples now. Mr Green exhaled heavily and took another shuddering breath, his face blood-red and his eyelids pulled back in terror.
‘Save me.’ The words came out half-strangled. ‘Please.’
‘Do something,’ my guardian barked. ‘You are the one with the medical experience.’
Mr Green’s hands clutched at his neck. He was panting quickly and I could hear his lungs starting to fill with water. His complexion turned dark blue.
‘Lean forwards.’ I felt as if somebody else was giving the instructions. ‘And try to breathe slowly.’ But I knew that whatever I said was useless.
Horatio Green’s face was black now as he fought to take in air.
‘Do not die in my house,’ Sidney Grice said. ‘I absolutely forbid it.’
Horatio Green doubled up, the fluid gurgling in his chest. With one gigantic effort he struggled to his feet. His left hand went down but missed the arm of the chair and he slipped sideways. I caught his arm and he gripped the sleeve on my dress, pinching my skin so hard that I cried out.
‘Stay conscious,’ my guardian commanded.
‘It is all right,’ I said as he swayed forwards. I steadied myself. ‘It is all right,’ I said again slowly. ‘I have got you and I shall not let you go’
Those eyes locked on mine in helpless desperation. I had seen that look before and I had hoped not to see it again.
What passed through your mind as I cradled your face that last time? Did your love turn all at once to a sense of betrayal? ‘God bless you,’ I said and I thought you nodded. You mouthed my name in flecks of your own blood.
The Mangle Street Murders Page 27